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JOCELYN : A PLAY 



JOCELYN 



A Ploy and Thirty Verses 



CHARLES WILLIAM BRACKETT 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 



Copyright, 1915, by Charles William Brackett 



All Rights Reserved 






For permission to use poems in this volume ar- 
knoivledgments are due to the National Magazine, 
Boston, Massachusetts, and to The Williams Liter- 
ary Monthly and the New Coffee Club, of Wil- 
liamstown, Massachusetts. 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



APR 121915 

©7Ia397512 



CONTENTS 

Jocelyn, A Play 7 

The New Muse 49 

A Lament for Gwethalyn 53 

Carnival Night 56 

Unrealized 59 

Mid-June 6o 

As When a Hungry Man Dreameth 6i 

Potter's Fields 62 

De Gyarden 6 3 

To Cleopatra 6 4 

The Watcher's Story 65 

Twilight Songs 6 7 

The Departure 6 9 

In a Boudoir 7 l 

The Home Coming 7 2 

The Prisoner 74 

A Night Thought at Sea 76 

At a Play 78 

The Sanctuary 79 

Two Memories • • • °° 

The Little House Forgotten 8i 

Marie Stuart's Mirror 83 

Enchantment 84 



CONTENTS 

Bravado ge 

When You Are Gone 86 

Aspecta Belli 87 

The Dancing Girl in Prison 88 

Lights and Shadows 89 

A Song of Ladies' Names 90 

An Explanation o 2 

Nineteen Hundred Fourteen 93 



JOCELYN: A PLAY 



Cast of Characters 

John Dickson, Caretaker of the ruin of Rossmar 

Castle. 
Mrs. Dickson, his wife. 
Alice, their little daughter. 
John, their son. 

Jocelyn, Mr. Dickson's daughter by his first wife. 
Justin Wilkinson, a tourist. 
Mrs. Wilkinson, his wife. 
Marian Wilkinson, their daughter. 

Place, Rossmar Castle. 

Time, the Present. 



JOCELYN 

Scene i 

The stage represents the courtyard of an old cas- 
tle which closes the back of the scene, its mossy gray 
walls against a clear blue sky. A little to the left of 
the centre there is a wide door, above it the faded 
traces of armorial bearings carved on the stone, to 
the left a circular tower the upper half of which has 
been broken or fallen aivay. On the left the stage 
can only be entered by a gate in an uneven wall 
which hangs open in an indolent, dilapidated way. 
The right of the stage is shut off with bushes, but 
toward the front there is a pool on which a few 
water lilies are dancing. The stage itself is a gar- 
den, but not such a garden as one might expect be- 
low an old castle; a cottage garden, with a row of 
high rose bushes crowded against the wall, just in 
full ivhite bloom. There is a daring orange sunflower 
too, and a great cluster of larkspur, in front of them 
mignonette and daisies. 

Inside the door of the castle one catches a glimpse 
of a very humble room, and Mrs. Dickson some- 
times passes across the line of vision, at her ironing. 
In an invalid's chair near the pool Jocelyn lies 
asleep, so placed that the audience cannot see her 
9 



JOCELYN 

face, while her little half-sister Alice sits on the 
ground looking at her, her chin resting meditatively 
in her hands, her brother John is near by, flat on 
his stomach, his feet swinging in the air, as he bur- 
rows aimlessly with a jack-knife. After a few mo- 
ments spent in contemplating her sister, Alice 
speaks. 
Alice. Isn't she lovely there asleep, her face 

So flowery fragile? See the place 

Where the long lashes touch her cheek. 
Do you suppose 

I'll be as pretty ever? 
As she is a very tousle-headed, round, little per- 
son with few pretences to pulchritude, her brother 
bursts into a roar of laughter at the question. 
John. Why your nose 

Turns up like a cock when he drinks, 

And you're all freckledy. 
Exceedingly enraged by this somezuhat tactless 
frankness, Alice falls upon her brother with intent 
to torture. 
John. Ow! you minx, 

Don't pull my hair. You asked me, 
didn't you? 
Alice. You mean thing. 

John. Well, it's so. 

Alice. It isn't true. 

John. It is; don't be a silly. 

Alice. {tearfully) Anyway, 

10 



JOCELYN 



You n — needn't tell me so. 
She iveeps with the abandon of youthful rage. 
Her brother ignores her as long as his nerves hold 
out. Then at last: 
John. Oh, say 

Ally, you're really not quite such a 
fright. 
She weeps on unpacified. He tries another ma- 
neuvre. 
John. Did you hear 'em creep down the hall 

last night? 
Alice. Hear who? 

John. Hear them, the old ones. 

Alice. No, did you? 

John. Yes. 

Alice. {glancing at Jocelyn). 

Will you tell her? 
John. No, I'm frightened to. 

She's friends with them. Dad says it 

isn't good 
To be friends with dead people. 1 f she 

should — 
Should go away with them — 
Alice. Don't. I'm afraid. 

Let's run and play something. 
John. Let's wade. 

Alice. Oh, goody, yes. 

John. There's someone coming, look. 

Down by the gate. 
II 



JOCELYN 

Alice. Oh! Hurry. 

John. Beat you down the brook. 

They pull off their stockings quickly, step into the 
pool and wade away. 

They are hardly out of sight ivhen three people 
appear at the gate. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkinson, 
of whom no more needs be said than that they are 
tourists and deserving of the utmost stigma attach- 
ing to that term, and their daughter Marian, who 
though she is a tourist, shares none of the stigma but 
makes of touring an art — and a very graceful one. 
She comes in before the others, sees the courtyard 
and turns. 

Marian. Mamma, White roses! Oh, you dear, 
dear things, 
How did you know you looked so love- 
ly there? It brings 
A sort of strange new beauty, just that 

trace 
Of humbler sweetness to this stately 

place, 
Beneath the crumbled splendor of that 

wall 
A clump of cottage blossoms — 
Mr. W. {impatiently) Call, 

Marian, see if there's not some sort of 

guide 
To show us 'round — we haven't long. 
Mrs. W. Inside 

12 



JOCELYN 



There seems to be someone. 
Mr. Wilkinson taps on the ground with his 
stick. Mrs. Dickson, who is frantically trying to 
take off her apron, calls, 
Mrs. D. One moment, sir, 

Just till I lay my iron by. Things are 

in such a stir. 
I'm ironing and of course my man's 
away. 
Mr. W. How long'll it take to do the place? 
Mrs. W. Oh! What a day! 

(She sinks down on a bench.) 
I simply can't go farther; I'll stay here. 
While you go on. 
Marian. Then I'll stay with you, dear. 

Mr. W. Don't be absurd, child. Why, when 
people ask 
How you like Rossmar, what'll you 
say? 
Mrs. W. This task 

Of seeing things is killing me. You two 
Go on. I'll wait; it's lovely here. 
Marian, (picking a spray of azure larkspur) 

What blue! 
What color! it seems flaming every- 
where. 
Mrs. D. I'd ask you in the house, but it's so hot 

in there. 
Mrs. W. That's very kind, I'm sure. 
13 



JOCELYN 



Mr. W. Is all this old 

Or just fixed up to look so? 
Mrs. D. {bridling) Why, it's told 

The castle stood here these six hundred 
years. 

The Staers 
Have owned it three at least. 
Marian. Who'cares 

How old it is? It's beautiful. 
Mrs. W. What's over there 

Beside the pond, in the old cripple's 
chair ? 
Mrs. D. That's Jocelyn, she's my husband's eld- 
est, she's not strong 
Mrs. W. Is it contagious? Justin, we've been 
here too long 
Already. Let's leave. Where's my 
bag? 
Mrs. D. Don't be afraid, 

It isn't catching. She's a little maid 
Born weakly like, but no disease. 
She won't be here long. Jocelyn! 
Marian. Please. 

Don't wake her. 
Jocelyn. I am awake; I only shut my eyes 

To rest them. 
Mrs. W. Justin, I advise — 

Justin, will you please listen! It's too 
late 

14 



JOCELYN 



To dawdle, you two go right on; I'll 
wait. 
Mrs. D. Jocelyn will tell you everything right 

here. 
Marian. That certainly should please you, dear, 
Sight-seeing, comfort, travel while you 

sit — 
A la the movies. 
Mrs. W. I'd like seeing it 

But my poor feet, you know. 
Mr. W. You've some ghosts, I suppose. 

Marian. There are ghosts everywhere one goes, — 
The phantoms of dead poets' minds: 

Shakespeare 
Peopled all silent places; Guenevere, 
Mallory's Guenevere, haunts every an- 
cient room 
Where once queens lived. The bloom 
Of such great dreams never quite fades 
Between the pillars of white colonnades ; 
Electra lingers still — Not ghosts 
Of people dead, but those that long to 

be, white hosts 
Of dreams. They haunt all places 
With their dim forms and misty faces. 
Mr. W. When you've done rhapsodizing, let's 

be off. 
Mrs. W. (to her husband) Justin, come here! 
(In a whisper) 
15 



JOCELYN 



If I hear that girl cough, 
I leave — she looks tubercular to me, 
Notice her lashes. 
Mrs. D. This way please. 

Marian. Just see 

That panelling. 
Mrs. D. It's been time out of mind 

Just as — (their voices are heard no long- 
er) 
Mrs. W. Is there a legend of some kind 

About the castle? 
Jocelyn. Yes; there are quite a lot. 

Mrs. W. Well, could you tell me some. Oh, I 
forgot 
You're ill. If you're too tired, don't 

say a word 
But rest. And I'll pretend I've heard 
Everything that you have to tell 
When they come out. 
Jocelyn. Oh, I'm quite well, 

But you are good to think of me. I — 

I love 
All the old stories, so I'll gladly tell you 
of— 
Mrs. W. Everything please. 

JoCELYN. (in the conventional manner pointing 
to the tower) 

This part, dad says, 
Was built — 

16 



JOCELYN 



Mrs. W. Not dates. My mind's a maze 

Of dates and periods. Is there nu 

story of some sort, 
The kind there should be, all about this 

court 
And that old tower? 
Jocelyn. You hate them. Oh, I'm glad. 

Dates are such sombre things. 
Mrs. W. It's quite as bad 

As my expense account to keep them 
straight. 
Jocelyn. Well, once long, long ago — 
Mrs. W. (with a kind of old-lady sentimental- 
ity.) No, wait, 
Say once upon a time. 
Jocelyn. There was a lord of Rossmar who 

Married a Lady Jocelyn — 
Mrs. W. But that's your name too, 

Isn't it? 
Jocelyn. Yes, my mother had lived here 

Since she was just a girl, the name was 

— was very dear 
To her, she had dreamed over it so long. 
She died when I was born. She was 

not strong. 
They say that I am like her. When 

she heard 
Her baby was a girl, she said some 
word 

17 



JOCELYN 



So very low they could not hear until 

they bent 
Above her little faded smile. She meant 
Or seemed to mean that they should 

name 
Her baby Jocelyn. That is how it 

came 
That I am called by such a lovely word ; 

you see 
It is the only gift that she could leave 

for me, 
A word. 
Mrs. W. Poor child! If there is anything 

that I can do, — 
Jocelyn. Oh, pardon me, I had almost forgot- 
ten you 
And Lady Jocelyn's story. Did I say 
That she was very fair in that old way 
Of beauty, tall and straight, 
With filmy, sunny hair, whose weight 
Fell on her shoulders, as the dusty gold 
Of pollen falls on lilies. It is told 
She was so beautiful her husband did 

not dare 
Take her to court. 
Mrs. W. But I should think that there 

She would have shone. 
Jocelyn. She would, — too much, he feared 

The king was — was — kind of a Blue 

18 



JOCELYN 

Beard, 

Too fond of pretty ladies, and — and he 
Her husband — 
Mrs. W. He didn't trust her — Oh, I see, 

With golden hair — I've known the sort, 
And a blonde moral sense. She'd not 

have done at court. 
Jocelyn. Oh, no, she wasn't like that, people 

say, 
But good, not just great lady good — 

Each day 
She used to ride the circuit of her lands 
Seeing her people. Once she burned 

her hands 
Saving a little girl whose pinafore 
t Had taken fire. She always bore 

The scars of it on her white skin. 
The people worshipped her. The Inn 
Is called the Lady Jocelyn still. When 

the plague came, 
She fought it with them as she had the 

flame, 
Careless about herself. Oh, can't you 

see 
How good she must have been, how 

carelessly 
He must have judged her, for to him 
She had a fault — her womanhood, being 

so fair and slim 
19 



JOCELYN 

And tender. He could not understand, 
He wished a plaything fashioned to his 

hand, 
Not a heart's comrade. Yet he put 

some trust in her 
Or else he'd not have sent the prisoner. 
Mrs. W. What prisoner? 

Jocelyn. Haven't I told you that one day 

After her Lord had been some months 

away 
At court, a cavalcade rode to the gate, 
Bringing a letter in the form of state 
From the Lord Rossmar — and a tall 

young man 
Of whom the letter told. "My Lady," 

so it ran 
"This youth has been entrusted to my 

care 
By His Imperial Highness. An affair 
(Of which you may know nothing), one 

of some import, 
Makes it imperative he shall not be at 

court. 
Shut him in some safe place and see 
That he is guarded well." Ungracious- 

ly 

The letter stopped, for that was all 
He thought that she should know. A 
seneschal 
20 



JOCELYN 

He would have thought was worthy of 

more trust, 
But s he— she was a woman. For the 

dust 
And grime she could not see the prison- 
er, whose name 
Was given Richard Guerdonlais. But 

when he came 
Later into her presence, her chaplain 

used to tell 
How fright came to her eyes, how her 

fan fell 
From the slim hand that stole up to her 

heart 
And how she turned her face away. He 

plaved a part 
Perhaps, if he had known her, for he 

drooped his eyes 
Submissively, and said at last, when it 

seemed wise 
Since she did not, that he should speak, 
"I am your prisoner. No bonds are 

weak 
With which your ladyship is pleased to 

bind." 
Then she looked in his face, quite blind 
It seemed, to any memories, and bowed 
And answered, "I am very proud 
So gallant a fine gentleman should stay 
21 



JOCELYN 

Under my care, Richard — " 

"De Guerdonlais? 
"Was it not so the letter said ?" he asked 
And then for the first time she smiled, 

but masked 
The smile behind her fan, and bid her 

servants place 
The prisoner in this tower, a pleasant 

place 
And yet a safe one. From whose case- 
ment, duly barred 
He could peer down into this inner 

yard 
Which was her garden. Down whose 

prim clipped ways 
She wandered every day, for many days, 
Ignoring little notes that fluttered down, 
Freighted with what? Gay gossip of 

the town? 
Or love? Or fragrant memories? Who 

knows? 
They lay unread, wept over by the rose 
That happened to be fullest blown. A 

song 
Would float down to her sometimes, 

but for long 
At the first hearing of his voice she 

turned and fled 
To her own panelled room. 
22 



JOCELYN 

Mrs. W. {disappointedly) And is it said 

She never saw him? 
Jocelyn. After a wait 

Of several months there galloped to the 
gate 

A second cavalcade with a new letter 
that ran thus: 

"The King has changed his mind, cap- 
tives are dangerous, 

Turn over to this messenger straight- 
way 

Your prisoner, Richard Guerdonlais." 

The note and the man's face seemed to 
spell death 

At once "Tomorrow," she said, — held 
her breath 

Lest he, the messenger, had been fore- 
warned ; 

He did not speak, it seemed he had not 
been, she turned 

Less fearfully, "Tomorrow you will 
bring 

The prisoner to my lord." The ring 

She wore trembled against his lips ; then 
she withdrew 

To her own room. The whole day 
through 

She waited — and I think she must have 
prayed 

23 



JOCELYN 



Mrs. W. 

JOCELYN. 

Mrs. W. 

JOCELYN. 



Mrs. W. 



JOCELYN. 

Mrs. W 



Marian 
Marian. 



Until the night came, silent to her aid, 
And must have trembled as she waited 

there. 
At midnight through the castle every- 
where 
Was heard the sound of beating on the 

gate— 
The lord of Rossmar had returned. He 

did not wait 
When they admitted him, but asked 

which was the prisoner's cell — 
They told him. He went instantly. 

Well? Well? 
The prisoner was gone. 

And she, go on! 
The Lady Jocelyn too was gone. 
He never found them, though he tried 

and tried 
All through his life. 

I wonder if she died. 
I want to know the end. Make up one. 

Do. 
Say what came next. 

I can't, you see, it's true. 
Oh, what an irritating thing the truth 

is. If you can 
Make up one, I'll believe it. 
runs from the house joyously. 
Mamma, see what I've found — a fan 
24 



JOCELYN 



And such a fan, all lace and ivory 
Behind a swarthy tapestry 
It has lain years, and just by chance 
My fingers felt it there. A glance 
Showed what it was, and father gave it 
me. 
Mr. W. It cost a pretty penny, too. 
Marian. But see 

The past itself speaks through such fra- 
gile things 
As this, not through the chronicle that 

sings 
A crashing battle psalm, but through 

some tiny bit of bravery 
Fashioned of lace and silk, of coquetry 
Itself. It speaks of gallants' plumes 

and cloaks of vair, 
Of candlelight, white throats and dusky 

hair, 
The sweep and song of satins and ve- 
lours, 
The laughter and the tears of old am- 
ours 
Mr. W. All this about a fan! 
Marian. It isn't just a fan to me, 

It is a symbol. 
Mrs. W. Let me see 

It is quite charming. 
Marian. I never felt that magic thing 

25 



JOCELYN 

the past 
Until I took it in my hand. Just think, 

the last, 
The very last who touched it, did it so 

long ago 
She is just dust and echoes now. 
Mr. W. Oh, I don't know 

Perhaps some tourist laid it down. 
Mrs. W. Justin! 

Marian. There lingers 

About its sticks the warmth of lovely 
fingers. 
Mr. W. How can you be so sure? 
Mrs. W. Justin, don't tease, 

It's getting late, we'd best be going — 
Joceyn. Please 

Please may I see the fan? 
Mrs. D. Jocelyn! 

Marian. Of course you may. 

She gives it to her. Jocelyn takes it, spreads it 
out, puts it against her cheek very lightly. 
Jocelyn. It may have been her fan. Perhaps that 
day 
She went away she left it there. Oh, 

speak, 
You lovely thing, did your breath touch 

her cheek 
So tenderly, so softly. Did you rest 
Your ivory whiteness in her white young 
26 



JOCELYN 



Mr. W. 
Mrs. W. 

JOCELYN. 



Mr. W. 

Marian 
Marian. 

JOCELYN. 

Mrs. D. 

JOCELYN. 

Marian. 
Mrs. W. 
Mr. W. 



Marian. 

Mr. W. 
Mrs. W. 

Mrs. D. 
Mr. W. 



Mrs. D. 



breast ? 
What are we waiting for? 

Oh, Heaven knows. 
Once, after all the flowers had gone, a 

tardy rose 
Came to the garden. 

Well, it's late, come, Marian. 
holding out her hand to Jocelyn. 
I'm sorry. 

Oh, your lovely fan. 
It has told me so many faded things. 
Why, Jocelyn, it can't talk. 

No, for it sings. 
Good-bye, the later Jocelyn 

Shall I give her a tip? 
Of course. Don't put your finger to 

your lip, 
Marian, these people all expect their 

fees. 
Not this one, please don't, mother, 

please. 
All right. 
{graciously to Mrs. Dickson) 

It is well worth the trip from town. 
I thank you, ma'am. 

A bit run down, 
But paying still. Well, come on, both of 

you. Good day. 
There's one thing about folks like him, 
27 



JOCELYN 

— they pay. 
Jocelyn. The girl was oh! so pretty, wasn't she? 
Mrs. D. And dressed real stylish too, — that or- 
gandie 
Would have been nice for you. They 

paid 
Enough for that old fan to buy you 
wine. 
Jocelyn. Oh, I'm afraid 

I couldn't drink the wine. 
Mrs. D. Why, it ain't liquor, dear, 

Not when you take it for your health. 
Jocelyn. Dad won't be here 

Tonight? 
Mrs. D. Not anyway till late. 

He must have missed the train. Well, 

we won't wait 
Till he comes back to go to bed. He 

can just knock 
Until he wakes us up. It must be sev- 
en o'clock. 
He can't get back now until twelve, at 
least. 
Jocelyn. The shadow has come to the pool. Like 
a gray beast 
. Timid but thirsty. Do you hear the last 
wild bee? 
(She goes and kneels beside the pool, 
bending over it.) 
28 



JOCELYN 

They are the weariest flowers, the water 

lilies, see 
How their cool miser fingers close 
About their slender gold — it seems the 

lily knows 
Her sister stars will sratter shinier gold, 
And so she hides her own. 
Mrs. D. Oh, you'll take cold 

If you stay kneeling there. 
Marian comes to the gate. 
Marian. I came, I couldn't help but come to — to 
Mrs. D. You want your money back. 

Marion holds out the fan to Jocelyn. 
Marian. To give this you. 

Jocelyn. The fan! — Her lovely fan! 
Mrs. D. Oh, Miss, I can't allow! 

Marian. You cannot help it — for I've done it 

now. 
Jocelyn. Oh, girl, what is your name. 
Marian. An ugly one — just Marian. 

Jocelyn. I want to try — 
Marian. No, don't. 

She turns at the gate and throws Jocelyn a 
kiss. Jocelyn still kneeling with the fan in her 
hands, croons to herself. 

Jocelyn. Her fan — her fan. 

Curtain. 



-9 



JOCELYN 

Scene II 

Inside the castle. The stage represents the hall at 
the foot of the tower staircase. There is a stove 
toward the back at the left, behind which the pan- 
elled walls have been whitewashed, still farther to 
the left a bench littered with tin kitchen utensils. 
A door leads off left to the sleeping rooms. On the 
extreme right at the back of the stage, is the entrance 
to the toiver stair, a yawning space filled in former 
times with a door which has long since disappeared. 
Through this opening one can see the staircase wind- 
ing up; but its uselessness is apparent, for the tower 
is fallen away so far that one can catch even from 
the interior of the room a fugitive glimpse of a 
space of sky stitched with stars. The right hand 
side of the room is filled with two great panels of 
exquisite old oak, and toward the front there is a 
door by which the room is reached from outside. A 
little to the left of the centre is a kitchen table 
on which is a lamp and two candlesticks, and Mrs. 
Dickson's darning materials. Mrs. Dickson sits 
at the left of this table at work, Jocelyn at the 
right in her chair. The children are kneeling be- 
side her. As the curtain rises, Jocelyn has just fin- 
ished a story, there is a moment of expectancy on the 
part of the children, then they begin to plead. 

John. Just one more, Jocelyn. 

Alice. Oh, yes. Please, just one. 

30 



JOCELYN 



John. About the twisted dwarf. 

Alice. About the nun 

With the red rose. 
Mrs. D. Not one. It's time for bed. 

Send them off, Jocelyn. 
Jocelyn. It's too late now, dears, instead 

I'll tell you one tomorrow, — one quite 
new. 
John. With fighting in it? 

Jocelyn. {nodding her assent). And a princess, 

too. 
Alice. It seems as if I just can't wait. 

Jocelyn. You'll never know you're waiting. 
Mrs. D. And it's late 

For Heaven's sake, be off. 
Alice. The princesses have 

oh! such lovely names, 

Blanchefleur and Elsinore. 
Jocelyn. Like windy flames, 

Aren't they? 
Alice. And Melisande and Guenevere. 

Mrs. D. How do you think 'em up? 
Jocelyn. They're ones I hear. 

Sometimes the visitors speak them. 
Mrs. D. Look, John has drooped his head 

He's quite asleep. 
John. {hearing his name.) But I don't want 

to go to bed. 
Jocelyn takes his hand and little Alice's, who 
31 



JOCELYN 

is murmuring very sleepily. 

Alice. Tomorrow is the loveliest Princess's 

name always, it seems. 
Jocelyn. Perhaps you'll meet the Princess some 
where in your dreams. 
She leads them out. Mrs. D. watches them plac- 
idly, then turns to her work again. As she looks 
over the stockings, she says, 

Mrs. D. There never were such children to wear 
holes. 
(She takes up a pair.) 
Heels, those are John's. Alice kicks 

out the soles. 
That's as it should be, a boy's heavy 

tread 
Comes down more firmly, hers trips 

where she's led 
And lighter like. (Counting the re- 
maining stockings.) 
Heavens, there's three more pairs! 
Well, I can't finish. 
Enter JoCELYN. 
Jocelyn. I've heard their prayers, 

And then I kissed them, blew the can- 
dle out, 
And said the fairy light must go to 
sleep. 
Mrs. D. Without 

Their crying! You're a hand with chil- 
33 



JOCELYN 



dren, 
Jocelyn. Why, 

I always say the things I think that I 
Would like to have had said when I 
was little too. 
Mrs. D. I never said 'em. Well, I never knew, 
I guess. (She goes and puts her arm 

around Jocelyn) 
I'm sorry. 
Jocelyn. Oh, you were good, so good, 

And I am such a weakly thing. You 

knew I never could — 
Could help you much. But aren't the 

things one wanted so 
And never had just good because you 

know 
Through them what others want? 
Mrs. D. I never wanted much 

Excepting clothes and food and such. 
And to hold up my head with decent 

folk 
Of course I should have liked a hand- 
some cloak 
With jet — 
Jocelyn. How strange, never to know desire! 

Never to want till wanting grew a fire 
That burned your soul. Why I would 

give my life for things 
To wear and see and hold. For rings 
33 



JOCELYN 



Mrs. D. 



JOCELYN. 



Mrs. D. 



JOCELYN. 

Mrs. D. 

JOCELYN. 



And silken furs — things that you've 

just admired 
I've wanted and I've had them too — 

yes all that I desired 
Holding the longing close. 
{working sleepily has not heard her). 

I guess I'll put the%e things away 
And go to bed myself. What did you 

say? 
Nothing — "nothing" — the frightened 

word 
We say when we think someone's 

heard 
The things we really mean. 

I don't suppose 
Your father'll come tonight. But 

Heaven only knows. 
If he does, since you're near the door, 
Will you just let him in. 

Of course, before 
His knocking wakes the children. 

I hope that we shan't hear 
The haunts tonight. 

I always listen, dear, 
But I have never heard them. I should 

be so glad 
I know them all so well. Geoffrey, 

Conrad, 
And that poor crippled Hugh. 
34 



JOCELYN 

Mrs. D. That awful Hugh 

It's him I'm scared of. 
Jocelyn. Lady Jocelyn, too, 

If I could hear her light step on the 
stairs — 
Mrs. D. Lord, Jocelyn, don't. Why, in my 
prayers 
That's what I beg the Lord to spare me 
most. 
Jocelyn. You'd be afraid! Her tender little 
ghost ! 
She never comes. I sit here in my chair 
Just hoping. 
Mrs. D. I hear 'em everywhere 

All through the castle. I don't see how 

you dare to stay 
Here of all places where they say 
She comes back every night to call to 

him 
And he comes down the stair. And it's 

so dim 
And dreadful. Don't you know the 
fear? 
Jocelyn. The wind and all the stars are very 
near 
And the dear Garden's just behind that 
wall. 
MRS. D. (nervously) 

Well — well — good night. If they 
35 



JOCELYN 

come, you might call, 
Though I shan't answer. Still you'd 
best. Good night. 
Jocelyn. Will you please light the taper? 
Mrs. D. What? A light? 

Why, aren't you going to sleep? 
Jocelyn. Please leave it here 

Burning beside me. 
Mrs. D. Ah ! So you do know the fear. 

Jocelyn. No, not of them, and yet — I am afraid 

I am afraid that I might die. 
Mrs. D. Why, little maid! 

Jocelyn. Here in the darkness, I hate darkness 
so. 
My soul would be afraid — afraid, I 

know. 
It would be dreadful to meet Death 

afraid. To die 
Choked with the blackness. 
Mrs. D. Oh, you've made me cry. 

You won't die, little maid. 
Jocelyn. Not long, 

It won't be long. 
Mrs. D. Jocelyn! 

Jocelyn. You are so strong 

I seem to feel the life, here in your 

breast 
In your strong arms. Life! that is best 
Of all the gifts ! and I have never known 
36 



JOCELYN 

it yet. 
Mrs. D. Good night. Don't think such thoughts. 

Don't fret. 
Jocelyn. Good night. 
(Mrs. Dickson goes) 

It is a solemn thing to say 
Even "Good night." Sleep is so far away 
From everything we know, a kind of 

miracle, and yet 
We have grown used to it, and so for- 
get. 
We have forgotten many miracles — 

waking and light 
The miracles of silence and of song, the 

night 
That blossoms like a great blue tree, in 

gold. 
Yet that we see so often we stay cold 
And do not wonder. Yet a few still 

keep 
Their ancient strangeness. Death and 
dreams, not sleep. 
(She leans back wearily and closes her eyes; then 
opens them again.) 

Will you come back, in a sweet dream, 

girl of to-day 
Who reached across the distance — young 

and gay 
And beautiful, to touch my hand and 
37 



JOCELYN 

give me this 

This gift of gifts. 
(She takes the fan from her dress and strokes it) 
How beautiful it is! 

Made out of dreams. 
She leans back in her chair, leaving the fan in 
her lap, her eyes close. In the intense stillness one 
can hear a restless breeze that has found its way 
into the castle, burdened with the murmurs of gar- 
ments, with forgotten sighs, with all the mysterious 
little sounds that breezes treasure up for silent times 
and memory haunted places. Something rattles on 
the bench where the tin utensils were. Glancing 
toivard the sound, one sees that the tins are no longer 
there; in their place is a cloak flung over a carved 
chest, on which gleams the thin shaft of a sword. The 
stove is gone, too, and the walls, instead of being 
roughly whitewashed, are hung with deep toned 
tapestries. Jocelyn is not sitting in a cripple's 
chair, but in a high seat, and the candle beside her 
rests in a massive candelabrum on a huge table. Her 
humble clothes have changed to a long robe of green 
with a heavy golden girdle. Only the fan in her 
lap remains the same. Her hand slips from the arm 
of her chair and touches it. The snap of its open- 
ing seems to ivaken her, she rises, no touch of the 
old feebleness in her action. She walks up and down; 
one can see that she is troubled. She brushes across 
her forehead with the back of her hand. At last she 
38 



JOCELYN 

speaks in the voice of one who is almost decided on a 
course. 

Jocelyn. I do not dare, I am afraid, 

My lord, what would you say? 

That I— that I had played 
The traitor. Or did you know this 
when you sent him. 

And is it just a test? 
And if I fail in this, what then? Is 

it not best 
To fail when failure is the price of 

good? I am ashamed 
That I should pause. 
(She starts toward the staircase, which is now 
hidden by a heavy door, but as she goes another 
thought seems to stop her.) 

Jocelyn of Rossmar named 
A wanton. No! Oh, God of troubled 
hearts, show me the way. I know 
It is not right that he should die. Long, 

long ago 
In a lost time of sunlight, God, I saw 
His heart as you must see men's hearts 

— no law 
Blinding my eyes, only love lighting 

them. We were 
So very young. You must have smiled 

— the stir 
Of life was just a whisper in our ears, 
39 



JOCELYN 

and such a whisper — fair 
And frail as a bird's song at sundown. 

Everywhere 
We looked was youth and joy to be. 

And then — 
Ah, God, can women know the hearts 

of men? 
If so, I knew his heart. The wind crept 

frightenedly 
Along the rose walk when he came to me 
That night. We wore no masks that 

wild night of good-bye 
And yet there was no sin. I think that 

I— 
I might have sinned. His was the 

stronger soul 
And so we parted — and I stole 
Back to my father's house in tears. 

Honor, on your high shrine 
We laid a sacrifice, his love and mine, 
All beautiful and young, stained with 

the bitterness of tears 
This we have given, given through the 

years. 
I cannot sacrifice again. Not this — 

not this 
Your empty name's not worth a life 

like his 
{She runs to the door of the tower unlocks it 
40 



JOCELYN 

flings it open and calls) 

Richard, Richard. Come, you must go 

away. 
A letter's come from Rossmar. One 

more day 
And it would be too late. Why don't 

you come? 
I'll have a horse made ready. Are you 

dumb 
That you don't answer? Won't you 
come to me? 
The wind has risen. As she speaks these words, 
a gust bloius out the thin flame of the candle, and 
the room is in total darkness. 
Jocelyn - . Make haste, make haste. 

The frightened voice of little Alice cries, 
Alice. The ghosts! Oh, [ocelyn! 

Just then there is a thundering knock 
at the gate. 
Jocelyn screams Hear! It's he, 

Rossmar's returned. Richard, don't 

wait! 
I love you so — Thank God. It's not 

too late. 
Take the sword on that chest, and the 
cloak too, and this 
(She screams as though to a gate keeper) 

Don't let him in. Behind the tapestry 
there is 

,1 



JOCELYN 

A swinging panel. Wait, wait! I used 

to know 
The secret spring. There! 
Little John's voice, Jocelyn, don't go! 

Alice. Don't go with them. 

The beating on the door comes again. 
Jocelyn fiercely: 
Jocelyn. Listen! Just hear 

Hear how he beats the door. It is the 

fear, 
The fear that's on him. He don't trust 

us. Well, 
He does well not to trust me. Hide! 
There is a noise of someone falling. From the 
left comes a voice — Mrs. Dickson's: 
Mrs. D. What fell ? 

What is the knocking at the door? 
She comes in carrying a lamp. The tapestry and 
the rich furnishings are gone — it is the same hall 
transformed back to a hovel. Only the panel at the 
right of the stairs has swung away and before the 
opening lies Jocelyn's little crumpled figure. 

Little Alice is cowering against the wall; John 
is kneeling behind the table. 

Mrs. D. What's happened? Jocelyn, are you 
hurt? 
Run, John, and let your father in. 
Jocelyn. (still half asleep.) My skirt 

Caught in the door — won't open. 



JOCELYN 

Mrs. D. You're asleep — 

Wake up, dear. 
Jocelyn. I'm very tired. Please may I 

keep 
The light beside me. 
John has opened the door and let Mr. Dickson 
in. 

Mr. D. What happened? John, why didn't you 
Or some one let me in. I'm chilled 

clear through. 
It's gotten cold. 
Little Alice stands staring at the opening from 
zv hie h the panel has slid away. 
Alice. Where have they gone? Why did 

they go? 

Mrs. D. Who's gone? What are you talking of ? 

Alice. Why, don't you know? 

Didn't you see them? Didn't you see 

them stand 
Just for a moment in that place? He 

held her hand 
Against his lips and they were dressed 

like pictures. Why! 
Why, there's his sword! You came and 

then they went — but I 
I saw them. 
Mr. Dickinson realizes that something very 
strange has happened. 

Mr. D. Is the child hurt? 

43 



JOCELYN 



JOCELYN. No, 

Only I am a little tired. Dad, hold me. 
He takes her in his arms. Mrs. Dickson feels 
her pulse. 

Mrs. D. It's very slow. 

Jocelyn. Hold me up, father, toward the stars. 
Her father stands at the foot of the broken stair- 
way and holds her as high as he can. 
Jocelyn. Wasn't it beautiful — the scars 

Never quite left her hand, they were 

like roses 
Always. One last bee — then the flower 

closes 
Sleepily. 
Mrs. D. She's dying. It's the end. 

Jocelyn. Yes, yes, you in the sky, 

You broken lights of stars — lighten my 

soul — I do not want to die 
Life is so beautiful. Father! 

Yes. 



Mr. D. 
Mrs. D. 
Jocelyn 



Yes, little maid. 
frightened; suddenly it 



To die is — 
Her voice has been 
changes to almost a song. 

— is beautiful. I'm not afraid. 
The darkness — is — so — bright. 
Her head droops back, her arms stiffen a little 
about her father's neck. 
Mrs. D. She is dead. 



44 



JOCELYN 

John. She's gone with them, Dad, like you 

said. 
Mr. D. Her body was a little lamp and her soul 
flamed too high 
And shattered it. 

Mrs. Dickson goes and smoothes out the blank- 
et of the invalid's chair, then turns to her husband 
who still is holding the little body. 
Mrs. D. Here, where she used to lie. 

Together they put it very tenderly in the chair. 
Little Alice who is sobbing sees something on the 
floor and picks it up. 
Alice. The lovely fan is broken. 

John has gone to the open panel, he takes out the 
siuord. He tries to talk about "something else" as 
children do when they suffer. 
John. It's very heavy — see the rust. 

Alice. (stoops down and peers in too.) 

Look, John, a golden girdle. 
John. And what else? 

Alice. Dust. 



45 



POEMS 



THE NEW MUSE 

In Praise of the Movies 

Her shrine is a narrow darkened room, 
A gleam of light through a powerful glass, 
A speeding wheel and a smooth white screen 
Where her pageants of shadows pass, — 
Shadows, but filled with a fire of life, 
Treading the measures she bids them dance 
Mirth, Adventure, and Love, and Death, 
The forms of a new Romance. 

And though they are tawdry and dim at times, 

Their robes but pitifully fine, 

This muse can number more worshippers 

Than all the haughtier nine, 

This wonderful lady, this high Romance 

Stepped down from the ivory hall 

To give herself to the humble folk 

For almost nothing at all. 

To give herself — the best of herself, 
Renouncing the gaud of that bright word Art 
For a place in the temple of Everyday 
And the shrine of the humble heart. 
There she has found what the others have lost 
Through the fault of the pride they have learned 
through the years 



49 



The incense of honest laughter, 
The grace of unquestioning tears. 

Her watchers are one with the listeners 

To Homer's stories of Troy, 

And the ardor of Paris for Helen 

Thrills through the butcher's boy. 

At the sight of the frail fair picture girl 

With her pale sweet face and her hair blown down, 

And youth, his heart, bends low to kiss 

The hem of her beauty's gown. 

Then that freckled Miss with the leaf-brown eyes, 

She knows, and however else could she hear 

Of the magic of Juliet's moonlit face, 

And the passion of Guenevere — 

Of the great high pathos of sweet Jeanne d'Arc, 

Of the Lady of Coventry: 

She has passed through the gate of the land of the 

stars 
All for a five cent fee. 

She has left her world of the shop and town 

Though the dust is still on her skirt, 

And her heart is filled with the wonderment, 

The age-old beautiful hurt, 

And the cheap and tawdry fades unseen 

While the beauty shines and gleams, 

And the only dust that her spirit knows 

Is the dust of the stars and of dreams. 



50 



Beside her a man, an old, old man 

Has his wrinkled hands clasped over a cane, 

And a vivid light in his time-dimmed eyes 

As though he were young again, 

As though he had youth and strength and love, 

As though he were playing the picture play 

For to him the shadowy mimic love 

Shines with the glamor of yesterday. 

To him that girl in the picture play 

Is a sort of ghost of the girl he knew 

In that wistful, miserable, thoughtless time 

When the city held some of youth's magic too, 

When even his grim old office desk 

Was less of a task than a shrine, 

Because when a star hangs over a pool, 

The murkiest waters shine. 

To him, to all of them sitting there, 

The plays are a spirit's fire 

For the burning to dust of the common things, 

Pain and care and desire, 

For a moment's loss in forgetfulness 

Of the strife that each one strives, 

For the merging of lives grown over-tired 

Into young unwearied lives. 



51 



At last the pictures flicker out, 

The audience sighs and rises, 

And each man hides his self of dream 

Under his old disguises, 

But each returns to the trudging life 

Of the little everyday, 

With a soul that droops less wearily 

For the glimpse of far away. 

For there never comes to our high walled streets 

Some wind that has known the plain, 

That treasures still the sunny scent 

It has caught from the miles of grain. 

As it came on its careless trackless path 

No wearier feet than the wind's could have trod, 

But it breathes a word of the good in the world. 

And the Peace in the heart of God. 

So, though this muse has left the halls 

For a cheap, sweet, mortal fame, 

She has builded a holier temple 

And lighted a shining flame: 

She gives great gifts to her worshippers, 

Merciful gifts without cease — 

To the weary the gift of forgetfulness 

To the troubled the gift of peace. 



52 



A LAMENT FOR GWETHALYN 

A crumbling corridor wherein 

Grave waters seep 
Treasures the Lady Gwethalyn 

And the long stillness of her sleep. 

The spun late sunlight of her hair 

Frames between two straight folds hex face 
And an unrippled shroud of vair 

Hides all her miracle of grace. 

Her slender hands that wrought so well, 
Enchanter potent each white hand, 

Lie underneath a deeper spell 
Than Merlin in Broceliande. 

And from them they have stripped her rings 

Her emeralds carven cabusson 
Her rubies — all the shining things 

And they lie waxenly and wan. 

The nuns who robed her for her fete 

Granted no bit of bravery — 
It is not proudly one must wait 

That strange hour called eternity. 



53 



Yet sure she was not formed for this 
To be so solemnly attired — 

Desireful as Semiramis 

Where are the beauties she desired ? 

I wonder can she quite forget — 

She loved them so! — though lying there 

No sultry opals heavy set 

Caught in her bright Venetian hair? 

No drowsy attars subtlv pressed 
From roses blown in far Shiraz 

Upon the coarse cloth on her breast 
In the strait resting place she has. 

No gold of Ophir wraps her round 
Nor woven silks from Samarcand 

Only the youngest sister found 

And hid one white rose in her hand. 

She was so very young and vain 

It seems they might have granted her 

Some little gift of jewelled chain 
Or little grace of myrrh. 

For she was one, this Gwethalyn, 
Who knew the garden at all hours 

Who drank all living beauty in 

Were it of song or dusk or flowers. 



54 



Why, I have sometimes seen her pale 
In a sheer wonder of delight 

To see a flaunting peacock's tail 
Rose-window-like against the light. 

And I have known her in her room 
Just for the joy of something fair 

To wind all kind of forest-bloom 
In that bright auriflamme her hair. 

Does it not then seem somehow strange 
That she who loved things earthly so 

Should fall upon this sudden change 
And know not all she used to know ? 



55 



CARNIVAL NIGHT 

A Song to Aphrodite 

We who have scorned you are done with the scorn- 
ing; 
We crawl to your fair white feet to night. 
Morning may bring the gods of the morning; 
These are your hours and your old delight. 
Aphrodite, white bosomed and slender, 
Coral and ivory carven slim, 
It is to you that we make surrender 
Never remembering Him. 
Creed of the beautiful sensuous form, 
Creed of the dancing soul that forgets, 
Here, where desire is a blinding storm 
That no man battles, that none regrets; 
Here, in the blindness to aeons of morrows 
After the lapse of the dragging years, 
While the weary face of the Man of Sorrows, 
Whose eyes peer dim, through a mist of tears, 
Is forgotten before the light of your splendor, 
The light of your careless, carnal face 
We render you, what you would have us render 
Youth's red lips, and youth's mad young grace. 
We who have hearkened your voice — sensation, 
Till our souls reel drunk with our pulses' beating. 
This is our tribute — our adoration 
This that we dance while the night is fleeting, 
This we give for the gifts you have brought us, 



56 



This for the gifts of roses and wine, 

This for Nepenthe, and Lethe and lotus — 

We who are drugged with your anodyne. 

We have made an end of the gods that we prayed to. 

We have forgotten their pageantried numbers, 

We, whose ancient passions once made you, 

Wake you this night from your passionless slumbers, 

Wake you with song and with dancing and feting 

Wine of the vineyard and garden's red bloom. 

Ah, have you waited as we have been waiting 

There in the dusk of your silent tomb? 

We have been bowed to the Carpenter's Son, 

Pressing our lips to his garment's hem, 

Mammon, and Buddah — Ah, one by one 

We have gilded our idols and shattered them. 

Yet I think that none of them ever has died, 

For the soul of man has a thousand creeds, 

And the soul is not proud with the body's pride — 

Our needs have sought them, our poor men's needs. 

And each of the Gods has a shrine for man 

Where his soul may bow as the moment slips. 

Man's soul, whose freedom is greater than 



57 



The broken faith he swears with his lips. 

So to-night it is not we have wakened you sleeping 

But we have spoken your praise aloud ; 

Oh, we were weary of weeping, and weeping, 

Our souls were weary of being bowed, 

So we came to you — lover with weary lover, 

For your long slim throat, and your blue veined 

breast, 
For the dusk where your slumbrous eyelids hover; 
It is best, perhaps, in the end — it is best. 

It is over — the night with its dazzle of faces — 
It is grown as gray as the lips of the dead. 
The dancers are gone from their shining places, 
There is red on the floor — spilled wine's dull red. 
There is only one girl of them all who lingers 
Here in abandon's ruins — dumb, 
Her rouged face hid by her frightened fingers — 
The dawn of the Galilean is come. 



58 



UNREALIZED 

They pass, the powerless dreams, 

Of things that never may be, 
Pass into time as the weary streams 

That merge in the heart of a tideless sea, 
Each a languid, regretful maiden, 

Frail as a lily's slender stem, 
And the winds of the world are laden 

With the tears men shed for them. 

Their sister dreams being strong, 

Have fashioned beautiful things 
Out of men's hopeless passions song, 

Peace from the sorrowing hearts of kings; 
But they — no blossom nor fruit nor bud 

Falls from their fragile hands, it seems, 
Yet the thorns of the world are red with blood 

From the torn white feet of dreams. 



59 



MID-JUNE 

The filmy Queen Ann's lace is bent, 
That reared its fragile head so high, 
Beneath the black and azure wings 
Of a sombre butterfly, 
And a summer scent is over the woods 
And a new deep blue in the sky. 

The dust has powdered all the heads 
Of the buttercups and the grasses; 
The clover yields its honeyed heart 
To every bee that passes; 
And the daisies wander over the hills 
In trembling moon-white masses. 

The Poppy's flowers are crumpled 

Under the soft June rain ; 

But the Iris shines in the border, 

And the lupines in the lane, 

And the blossoms blown from the locust trees 

Drift on the pool again. 



6c 



AS WHEN A HUNGRY MAN DREAMETH 

Last night I dreamed again. No strange new place, 

No shadowed pleasance, no moon-drenched parterre, 

Was, in my dream, the setting for your face, 

But you knelt, with your loose bound, sunny hair 

In your own little garden — as you used 

Among the flowers you loved ; heartsease 

With tiny faces whimsically amused, 

Poppies, and iris blooms, and peonies. 

And while you worked, you sang, beneath your 

breath, 
The notes of some forgotten, happy air. 
But at your side an angel stood named Death, 
An angel — yet you did not know him there. 
I tried to say to you that he was near 
Wearily, as in dreams one tries. 
You — though my words seemed not to reach your 

ear — 
Glanced up, with glad, sweet questioning eyes, 
As one who hears but fails to understand. 
And, since that stately form you did not see, 
Smiling, you raised one grimy little hand, 
Kissed it — and blew the kiss to me. 

I woke. Outside were hurried feet, 
The petty thunder of the city's dawn. 
But from the murmur of that restless street 
You, and your garden face, — were gone. 



61 



POTTER'S FIELDS 

They are so sad, those level wind-swept places, 
Under the sodden grass and rain-drenched bough, 
That sameness that one sees in beggars' faces 
Haunting their narrow houses now. 

Some flowers — a few crushed handfuls here and 

there — 
Wild blossoms, free to gather for the tearing, 
And yet so few have even paused to care, 
And all the rest gone past uncaring. 



()2 



DE GYARDEN 

Crocus, shinin' in de snow, 
Tulips tryin' hard to blow, 
O'l Miss Piny, blushin' red 
Puttin' out her sturdy head 
Like a bird dat's gwine to sing, — 
Dat's de gyarden in de spring. 

Rose o' Canterbury bells, 
Clumps o' foxgloves, spicy smells, 
Grassy paths between the beds 
Overhung by lilies' heads, 
Hollyhocks a-swingin' high, — 
Dat's de gyarden in July. 

Spots where yo' can see the ground, 
Tufts o' greeny grass around, 
Flauntin' chrysys, 'bout to die, 
Wavin' to de yeah "good-bye," — 
Sometimes think it's best of all, 
Is de gyarden in de fall. 



63 



TO CLEOPATRA 

Did you thrid poppies in your hair, 
That Caesar dreamed in your embrace? 
Or was it that your face was fair? 

That haunting memories lingering there 
Your Lethe lips might quite efface, 
Did you thrid poppies in your hair? 

Or was there in the scented air 
Of lotos fragrance just a trace? 
Or was it that your face was fair? 

That Antony forgot despair, 
And in your kiss forgot disgrace, 
Did you thrid poppies in your hair? 

Ah, was it that your face was fair 
That emperors loved your lips a space? 
Or were there poppies in your hair, 
And deep oblivion in your face? 



64 



THE WATCHER'S STORY 

When they had gone, a long, long time she did not 
stir ; 

Her weary breathing throbbing through the room 
was all I heard. 

The faint marked hollow cuddled close to her, 

Where she had held her baby, grew all blurred — 

It was so long. Once her thin hand wandered 
across the shabby sheet 

As though she had forgotten — then her eyes 

When she remembered, looked quite colorless, yet 
sweet ; 

And she turned from me, and her arms crept circle- 
wise 

About the little hollow space, and so I think she 
fell asleep. 

It grew quite dusk, then, just before the thin light 
failed, 

The caged canary I had brought ventured the lit- 
tle happy "cheep" ; 

He always trilled as prelude — and the cool notes 
trailed 

A little slippery song across the silence. 

She sat up in bed 

Quite suddenly, smiling her wistful twisted way 

I had not hoped to see again. The red 

Came back into her parted lips, that had so long 
seemed gray. 



65 



And in her cheeks a febrile, wild-rose tint 

Blossomed again — it seemed her eyes came from be- 
hind the cloud. 

Hers was a Saint's frail vision-haunted face. The 
print 

Of Mary pinned above the bed showed no such ten- 
der awe. Then half aloud 

But only to herself, she said his name, his fine for- 
bidden name, 

And one hand loosed her hair so it fell all about her 
like a cloak 

And her soul found some words, not gray with 
shame, 

Like her long prayers to God — but when she spoke, 

Her face was filled with such a miracle of light 

It seemed the Saint had seen a great God's angel 
stand 

Close to her humbleness. And so she died, that 
night, 

Her fingers seeking for his worshipped hand. 



66 



TWILIGHT SONG 

A frail little lady lives in our street 

(On the opposite side, two doors below) 

I never have chanced to see her face, 

And her name I do not know, 

But I know that her spirit inhabits the heights 

Where the souls of the angels go. 

For a violin is the voice of her soul, 

And these summer nights when the air grows hot 

Through my open windows I hear its songs 

Whether I listen or not, 

And the songs are songs I have heard in dreams 

And only have half forgot. 

A sorcery lies in the lady's hand, 

For she can — when she wishes to play, 

Build a shining path from the stifling town 

To the meadows and far away 

And some of the songs are of dreams to be 

And some are of yesterday. 

As she softly fingers her violin, 

Its happiness sings in her ears, 

For peace has a home in the lady's heart 

And the ceasing of pain and of fears. 

Yet I think, though none of the others know, 

She has passed through a valley of tears. 



6 7 



For though the music is filled with peace, 

The peace that her soul possesses, 

One dreams of a hungering mother touch 

On a tousel of baby tresses 

And a hand that is bringing a song to life 

But longing for other caresses. 

Then, when the music trembles out, 

The silence that steals through the gloom 

Seems like the falling into dust 

Of a fragile lily bloom, 

And the dusk becomes a holier place 

For the breath of that sweet perfume. 

A frail little lady lives in our street 

(On the opposite side, two doors beloiv). 

I never have chanced to see her face, 

And her name I do not know, 

But I know that her spirit inhabits the height* 

Where the souls of the angels go. 



68 



THE DEPARTURE 

Paris ; August, 1914 

Last night the sound of motors ceaselessly 

Taking the troops away, a desolate monotony 

Of leaving vehicles, that lasted the night through 

Now it is morning, sunlight, and we too 

Must go from Paris. Down our little street 

Almost deserted save for some few neat 

Busy Parisians walking worriedly, 

Women mostly, and old, into the Champs Elysee. 

Every tree 
Is brown this year from the June snow, dribbling 

brown leaves across 
The sunny pavements. One is at a loss 
To recognize this still and austere place 
As Paris. No smart turnout, no gay face 
Not a wild taxi. Then one sees, nailed up against 

a tree, a sign, 
All the old Paris in it. Just a line 
Of people laughing recklessly, their heads 
Flung back in glad abandon, greens and reds 
And yellows in it, a bright lithograph 
Catching a moment's wild half-drunken laugh 
Flashing it in one's face, a glaring ruse 
To hold the eyes. Written beneath is "On s' amuse 
Follement au Magic City" posted there 
In that deserted splendid thoroughfare 



69 



It seems the echo of a laugh, the laugher being 

dead 
Quite horrible in the new stillness. We go on. 

See far ahead 
The great crowd of the breadline, restlessly 
Waiting for food. We pass that, pause to see 
Our sunny Paris once again, then plunge into 
The anxious crowd before the Gare du Nord. Get 

through 
Somehow and find our train, then as we wait 
Think of that sign again, and how of late 
The laughter of that magic city, Paris, has been 

stilled, 
Surely one once found pleasure madly there, and 

one is filled 
With an old, superstitious fear. Was it too madly 

without pause, 
The laughing? Must the Magic City too, bend to 

old laws? 
Must silence fall upon its gaiety? The train 
Is moving out. Our thoughts do not go on 
We have escaped the judgment — we are gone. 



70 



IN A BOUDOIR 

A Villanelle of Vanities 

Vanities, ivory and lace and gold, 
Crystal boxes, vermilion within — 
Jocelyn the beauty is growing old. 

Powders and pencils of tints untold 
Scents as alluring as whispered sin 
Vanities, ivory and lace and gold. 

Drops to light fires in her eyes grown cold 
Rouge where the curve of her cheek is thin — 
Jocelyn the beauty is growing old. 

Rose silk hangings in fold on fold 
Lend their glamour to Jocelyn's skin — 
Vanities, ivory and lace and gold. 

Jocelyn the beauty is growing old. 
The delicate lines at her eyes and chin 
Art cannot hide for time grows bold. 
The lines are the threads that the Parcae spin. 



71 



THE HOME COMING 

I did not know how it could be 
But there I walked unweariedly 
Behind the child who guided me. 

The men lay in strange heaps around 
Some dead and some who had not found 
Such peace upon the battle ground. 

There was one boy who called upon 
God for a drink. I would have gone 
Only the strange child led me on. 

We left the field and took the road 
No one to hinder us — I strode 
As one unburdened of a load. 

I walked as one to whom God gives 

That ardor of the primitives, 

The knowledge that he really lives. 

And still we did not speak, we two, 
Then the child turned and led me through 
A little gateway that I knew. 

Then it was I who ran ahead, 
Leaving the dying and the dead, 
Knowing how near we were, I sped. 



72 



I never found the path so long 

Yet all the way was like a song 

My footsteps beat out, firm and strong. 

Then came the lighted window where 
You liked to sit, and you were there 
The lamplight on your sunny hair. 

You were asleep, I think. Your eyes 
Were fallen shut, night-lily-wise. 
I paused. I could not realize 

I 

You were so near. I tapped the pane. 
You did not hear. I knocked again, 
Louder this time, — but quite in vain. 

Then I grew frightened, for you were 

So very still and would not stir. 

I turned. 'Will you not waken her?' 

I asked. The strange child raised his head, 
His eyes were pitiful. He said, 
"Did you not know that you are dead?" 



73 



THE PRISONER 

In the house of Hate that is old, is prisoned Love 

that is young; 
Willow and wind and dusk are not more faint than 

she, 
And her soul is great with words unsaid and with 

songs she has never sung, 
And her lips that may not speak her heart sing 

sometimes wistfully. 

This is the song of Love that is young in the house 
of Hate that is old — 

The terrible house in the wood of the gnarled and 
twisted trees, 

Beneath whose wall is a pool under a scum of mold 

That knows no moon's pale face, and no sun's ar- 
gosies. 

This is the song of love that leans from the wall of 
the house of hate 

As a wall-flower leans from a shadowed wall sun- 
thirsty and stifled there, 

That the hours may pass more speedily, for each 
seems bound with the weight 

Of the things that never may be, and that never were. 



74 



"My heart is like a bended bough — 
Wealth weary weighed with orchard blow — 
And none may pluck of it but thou 
Who may not come — or know." 

"Will not some wind unfreight the stem — 
The blossoms hang so Lethe sweet — 
And fling a fragrant drift of them 
Lightly across thy wayward feet?" 

But there comes no wind to the house of Hate for 

the trees crowd jealously ; 
No wind to tremble the lightest branch or to make 

the heaviest blossom sway. 
They must hang until they wither and die of their 

own unseen maturity, 
And he for whom the song is sung may never know 

the way. 



75 



A NIGHT THOUGHT AT SEA 

Night and the fog, and the foghorn's bellowings 

Keeping sleep off — and the old Titanic ghost, 

And ashamed and unspoken questionings; 

What year and what month and most 

What time? Night of course like this, 

Full of fog and cold, and the engines thrum 

Repeating with metrical emphasis 

"We are safe — we are safe." And that to come! 

Was there music, some nervous sensuous air 

Like this that our orchestra plays? 

And what was the shock when it came, and where? 

Was it all quite sudden, a kind of daze 

Or slow and unutterably terrible ? 

The women — they lived; but the men — what of 

them? 
Did they suffer anguish unspeakable? 
Was it a hell of restraint to stem 
The tide of desire for a chance to fight 
To try for their lives — or was it quick 
And proud, as sacrifice should be, and slight 
Almost — in the greatness of things that were crowd- 
ing thick. 



76 



The waves dishevelled hierarchies, 

And under the muffled stars and the ravelled lace 

of foam 
Death — and the icy agonies — 
What is that? Not the sea nor the foghorn's boom 
Far away — do you hear? A voice, "All's well" 
And the fog is settling — one need not chafe 
And turn and seem so miserable 
We are safe at least. We are safe. 



77 



AT A PLAY 

Too many years beyond fourteen 
Had marred the brow of Juliet; 
Too often Romeo had been 
Beneath strange balconies — and yet 
There was a tragedy between 
Their listless speeches of regret — 
A tragedy quite unforeseen 
By each outwearied marionette — 
That poor and common tragedy 
Tense purposes grown slack and loose, 
Romance from whose wings every day 
Has stripped their plumage heartlessly 
And golden words through over-use 
Transmuted into things of clay. 



78 



THE SANCTUARY 

Outside the church the rush of the wind, 

Now chant, now shriek, now wild fanfare, 
Beaten against the pictured glass, 

Swept in gusts by the wind, the rain 
Quivering down in shadowy streams, 

Distorting the forms on each painted pane; 
Within, half drowned by the voice of the wind, 

The voice of the priest in prayer. 



79 



TWO MEMORIES 

Memories are woven of little things: 

Fragrance of Jacqueminot, 
The wild-bird song a street girl sings. 

Blown flowers of love's young burgeonings, 

Lost gardens swept with snow: 
Memories are woven of little things. 

Sweet echoing voice on youth's brave wings, 

Notes, memory-thridded, low: 
The wild-bird song a street girl sings. 

Frail white-moth hands unsmirched with rings, 

Fresh red flower lips aglow: 
Memories are woven of little things. 

The wild-bird song a street girl sings — 
Ah, close-barred gate named "Long Ago"! 

Memories are woven of little things, 
Fragrance of Jacqueminot. 



30 



THE LITTLE HOUSE FORGOTTEN 

Do you forget the house that you and I 
Builded together, very small and straight, 
And the twin poplars splendid quakerly 
With silvered leaves — that sentinel the gate. 

The gray walls where the starry clematis 
Curls like white foam about the balconies 
The tea things shining where the firelight is, 
Have you forgotten all of these? 

And your two swans Oswald and Vivian, 
And "Munch" the rabbit in the tall sweet grass, 
And our old gardener you nicknamed "Pan" 
With goodies for the children when they pass, 

And the good law we made that nothing new 
Should creep into our house among our flowers 
Except sometimes a book — but that these too 
Should oftenest be old and friends of ours. 

Do you forget the patient little house 
That waits and knows it never may come true? 
When you were gone among the poplars' boughs 
There was a sound of sorrowing for you. 



81 



The two swans drooped their white patrician throats 
And even Munch forgot to gnaw his grass, 
And it was with a sound like broken notes 
That those whom you had dreamed of saw you pass. 

Why do you wait, for you it is not far, 
And oh your old dreams miss you very much? 
Shall we not go together where they are? 
The very gate is hungry for your touch. 



62 



MARIE STUART'S MIRROR 

Could I bring you the gift I would, 
From a panelled chamber in Holyrood, 
It would be a mirror to suit your mood. 
Yes, the mirror of Marie Stuart there, 
A shadow and silver misted glass, 
Where frail ghosts, brave in satin and vair, 
Seem to linger and laugh and pass. 

Then when your glance, however fleet, 
Fell in that memory haunted space, 
Perhaps your pale cruel face might meet 
Another cruel and worshipped face 
In a dim kiss of sisterhood. 
Could I bring you the gift I would, 
From a panelled chamber in Holyrood. 



83 



ENCHANTMENT 

Enchantress say what sorcery 
Conjures thy thought? So pale 
Thou art 
A filmy web of subtlety 

Lies on thy beauty as a veil. 
Sweet-heart 
Do you plot out some Arcady? 

Some Arcady of punished wrong 

Or slight revenged, which planned of, sings 
Behind 
Thy curtained eyes a song 

Of treacheries and torturings? 
Oh blind 
Of spirit — yet so strong! 

Just let me rest against thy knees 
And let thy fingers stroke a while 
My hair. 
What while you tell the mysteries 
Beneath thy cool malicious smile, 
And stare 
With Borgian eyes across the seas. 



84 



BRAVADO 

She comes down the gilded, mirrored room 

Through the crowded tables' revelry, 

With an indolent languorous smile on her face, 

And the grace of a wind-swept fleur de lys. 

Her lips are as red as poppies are 

In a poppy field where the sunlight lies, 

Her skin is as white as the moon on the mist, 

There's a careless passion a-dream in her eyes. 

It is New Year's eve, there is holly, wine, 
Crimson poinsettas, amber champagne ; 
Confetti and serpentine, flung through the air, 
Drift down in a little gossamer rain. 
She passes by with her studied laugh, 
So debonair and so cavalier, 

With the ghost of a dread hid deep in her heart 
For the spectre she's feting — another year. 



85 



WHEN YOU ARE GONE 

They will go on — the things we knew, 
Sunset and night and dawn. 
The sky will change from blue to deeper blue, 
The dandelions will blossom in the lawn, 
Your lilac bush will bloom again for you, 
When you are gone — are gone. 

The stars will peer again down through the pine. 

Your borders will be gay with ismene, 

With bleeding-hearts and painted columbine, 

And in a tangled filigree 

The flowers will come to your clematis vine 

But not for me — for me. 



86 



ASPECTA BELLI 

I have not heard the fanfare or the shout 
The starry glory of the battle cries, 

But I have seen the fear and pain and doubt 
Steal ghostlike to a woman's haunted eyes 

And, all ashamed and pitiful, peer out. 

I have not seen the flash of fighting where 
A tattered oriflamme floats red with blood, 

But, sitting crumpled in Trafalgar Square 
Grey with new suffering, ancient motherhood 

The poor unsculptured statue of despair. 

I have not seen the proud and courtly side, 
The kingly passions, anger and desire, 

But in a street a girl who walked beside 
Her tremulous, heroic, boyish squire 

With tenderness too agonized for pride. 

I know the splendid passions waken there 
The stars of war — but these I did not meet; 

The little people feel but one — despair, 
And there is sorrowing in every street 

And hunger and sad eyes are everywhere. 



87 



THE DANCING GIRL IN PRISON 

The beast that was your passion stole in to me at 

dawn, 
When wine and lust from fettered truth had loosed 

their golden net, 
When glamour with its dusky cloak and scented 

hair was gone, 
And looking in your face I knew that bitter thing 

regret. 

Regret, as ever, came too late, and with it loathing 

came, 
And that is why I hid my face with hands your 

kisses struggled through, 
Then drew the little knife and struck, mad-blind 

with fear and shame, 
And fled across the ashen dawn; because at last I 

knew. 



LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 

She was a faded woman gowned in gray, 
Seeming as little vivid as her gown. 
In the dull background of the busy town 
It seemed she walked alone a loveless way. 

But once a careless word I chanced to say 
Woke a far dreaming in her eyes' soft brown: 
The past came back — the dreary mask was down, 
And she was very beautiful that day. 

She had that beauty that the sunlight has 

When it falls softly on the withered grass, 

Or some forgotten, ancient tomb, 

Or that a tear has on a rouge-stained face, 

Or that frail youth has in dark death's embrace, 

Or red flowers in a convent room. 



89 



A SONG OF LADIES' NAMES 

There are words that tread with a stately grace 
Through the miry ways where men's words meet ; 
With the holiness of a saint's pale face 
In the din and glare of a market street. 

There are pitiful words — the helpless ones 
Men freight with hope in their wistful songs; 
Sad as regret in the eyes of nuns, 
Fettered to earth with Time's great thongs. 

But, of men's words, most fair are those 
That shine with the gleaming of windy flames, 
That breathe of the scent of the fallen rose; 
The fragile music of ladies' names. 

Elaine is a word like a fallen cloak 

That treasures the moulding of slender shoulders, 

And Eloise like the blown gray smoke 

From a dust where passion smoulders. 

Beatrice is a song's last note 

Echoing faintly, lingering; 

Thais the stain at a pheasant's throat; 

Blanchefleur a fragrance at dusk, in spring. 



90 



Iseult and Deirdre and Guenevere 
Whisper the splendor of vanished queens; 
Vivian breathes of a haunted mere; 
Circe of sorcery's dim demesnes. 

Sappho, Poppea, and Melisande, 
And Helen, whose scourge was strong men's lust- 
The words are winds from a distant land ; 
Red roses blossomed from beauty's dust. 



91 



IN EXPLANATION 

Eileen — The flower white hyacinth 
Is cursed with a most alluring scent, 
And your mouth was just the scarlet plinth 
Fashioned for such a monument. 



92 



NINETEEN HUNDRED FOURTEEN 

Across the pages of time the words were written at 

last: 
The creature, come from the grime in the hidden 

depths of the past, 
Had struggled up through the years, age climbing 

on what dead ages had known 
And written at last in blood and tears the words — 

"Man has flown ; 
Man has aspired and bestirred him, no longer quite 

a thing of the clay 
From the day when desire first spurred him — he has 

worked : and he flies today." 
Was it not a thing to fulfill, a task to perform to 

have bended 
The will of the winds to his will ? And must the 

record be ended 
With these words "Man flying has fought, as he 

fought in the days when he crawled. 
Was all that the generations taught a legend that 

madmen scrawled ? 
And the work that inspired them a sinning, a pre- 
lude for other words, 
The terrible words beginning "Man winged himself 

as the birds 
And giving unto his body wings gave wings to the 

soul of the beast 
And stained his godliest purposings with the mire 

of his worst and his least?" 



93 



